


On I Go

by wellisntthatshiny



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Spring Awakening - Sheik/Sater
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Old man Grantaire with little kid Melchior all right it's happier than it probably should be, but also heartbreaking I guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-02
Updated: 2013-03-02
Packaged: 2017-12-04 01:29:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/704919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wellisntthatshiny/pseuds/wellisntthatshiny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ten-year-old Melchior Gabor meets an ancient Frenchman.<br/>In which Grantaire is the sole survivor and after fifty years of wandering tells his friends' story to a little boy who could use the support.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On I Go

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Usedtobeaduchess](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Usedtobeaduchess).



> Title taken from All That's Known and some references throughout. Vaguely inspired by several things including several crossover posts on tumblr and Rime of the Ancient Mariner.

Once, when Melchior was ten years old, a very old Frenchman had come through the town. Ilse had been enchanted with him and took to following the man around, pestering him with questions of Paris and life in France. The old man was remarkably patient with the girl, answering each of her questions with a sad smile and a caveat that he had not visited the City of Lights for decades, not in over fifty years, he said. Melchior began to tag along, listening to every word the man would tell Ilse, but never asking any questions of his own. His mother was wary of him spending so much time with the stranger –he had an unfortunate penchant for alcohol and avoided the church- but this man seemed so much wiser than the people Melchior had known all his life, almost as if one of the Greek philosophers had come to life, or even better a French philosophe. This man had not only read books, but had travelled the world over and experienced life for himself. It was so very different from the provincial life Melchior had known.  
One evening Melchior found himself alone with the old man. He had taken to wandering the woods, and when he stumbled across the Frenchman sitting beneath a tree, he couldn’t help but stop. The man gestured to the ground beside him and Melchior took a seat. “Your friend reminds me of someone I knew long ago,” the old man said. “An old friend with an artistic nature and a fascination with the odd.”  
Unsure what to say, Melchior simply nodded and looked at the ground.  
“But you, little Gabor, you have a far different spirit. You are a child of knowledge and intellect, hungry for every crumb you can get. I see the way you look when I tell Ilse tales of Paris. You aren’t listening for the romantic notions she seeks. No, you want to know what the world is like. This little town isn’t big enough for you, is it?”  
“Everyone here is the same, Monsieur. They go to church and read the same books. They don’t talk about anything, they just repeat it. Why doesn’t anyone learn anything new?”  
“Sometimes men are too set in their ways to change, no matter what they face. When there is little threat, they prefer the comfort of conformity to the fear of the unknown.” The man barked out a laugh “Idiots, the lot of them.”  
“Mum says not to call people names.” Melchior corrected, automatically.  
“Your mum is a good woman; don’t listen to her. You won’t learn anything worth knowing if you listen to respectable people.”  
Melchior sat a moment and thought about what the man had said. He mustered up all the courage in his ten year old heart and said to the man “Monsieur, may I tell you a secret?”  
“Of course,” the old man smiled.  
“I don’t believe in God,” Melchior blurted out.  
The old man looked at him, the smile transformed into a sad countenance. “At first I thought it was your friend Ilse to whom I would relate my tale. I see now that it’s you who needs them. Melchior, I don’t believe in God either. In fact, I hardly believe in anything. But once, when I was a much younger man, I met an angel. His name was Enjolras, and he was leader of a little group. Les Amis de L’ABC, they called themselves. It was a pun, you see. The friends of the abased- of the people without rights. They were revolutionaries, fighters for the people’s rights.”  
Melchior Gabor sat until well past dark listening to the old man speaking about the revolutionaries of Paris. Of Combeferre the guide, Courfeyrac the centre, Bahorel the giant, Prouvaire the romantic who was the bravest of them all, and most especially of Enjolras, their fearless leader. He spoke of secret meetings in a café, of a barricade built of furniture, of terrifying soldiers, the honor of clasping Enjolras’ hand in the hour of his death, and the horror of waking up the only survivor.  
“And I have been roaming since I woke; I never have a specific destination, but I always seem to find someone who could use their story. But you best run along now. We both have places to be.”  
“But Monsieur, where must you go? Won’t you come back to town with me? Ilse will be terribly sad if you leave without saying goodbye.”  
The old man paused a moment before fishing around in his coat and pulling out an ancient-looking paintbrush. “Give this to your friend. Tell her it’s a gift from me and that whenever she is sad, she can always turn to art; it always seemed to work for Feuilly. Now off with you. Your mother will be worried. But remember what I said, Melchior. You needn’t listen to what everyone around you says. The bravest and best men I ever knew went against everything they were told and fought for their cause. You grow up, you keep learning for yourself and you get out of this town. Go somewhere you can do real learning. A university in a city. Maybe you can teach others someday.”  
“But what about the people here? Shouldn’t I teach them, Ilse and the others?”  
“Melchior, those you’ve known will always be with you. You will bring them truth through your actions elsewhere. After you have gone and learned, truly learned, you can come back, whether to this town or one just like it, and spread your knowledge. Perhaps you have found your cause, little one. Now go.”  
“Goodbye. Thank you Monsieur Grantaire,” Melchior shouted as he ran in the direction of his house.  
“Goodbye, Melchior,” the old man said as he wandered further into the wood.

**Author's Note:**

> (In case you were wondering- yes it is intentional that Grantaire says their group and their story. He doesn't consider it his story because he didn't believe in the cause.


End file.
